Page 83 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“Oscar had a bunch of ear infections when he was little. He needed to have tubes put in. Holly and Seth learned that Oscar’s blood type was A positive when they did the initial blood work before the procedure. Holly and Seth were both type O.”
She took a step toward him. “And you’re A positive?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened after that?” she continued.
“Seth took off. Last I heard, he was cooking at some resort in Florida. And I offered to help Holly.”
“That’s why you came back to Colorado,” she said, connecting the dots.
“We always—I mean, she liked the mountains. So, I found them a place outside Telluride. And then…” he didn’t go on, but she knew this part. Holly passed away, and the responsibility to raise Oscar fell to him.
No wonder the guy blew into Denver three years ago as a raging hothead.
He barked a mirthless laugh.
“What is it, Mitch?” she asked.
“The funny thing is, Ines brought in Madelynnotbecause Holly had died, but because we wanted to give joint custody a try. You know, like having him here on weekends or during the summers. I thought I’d get to ease into being the kid’s dad. But here we are.”
“Here we are,” she repeated, watching him closely.
“That’s probably more info than you wanted to hear after only two days on the job as my kid’s nanny,” he said, his voice a gruff rasp.
“Two days? Is that all it’s been?” she exclaimed. But the man wasn’t wrong.
“Feels like two weeks,” he offered.
“Or two decades,” she teased, catching his eye when her stomach growled. She pressed her hands to her belly as another wave of mortification hit.
“I know that sound,” he said as the pain in his expression faded and was replaced with a look of purpose. “I’m going to make you the Signature Louise, so you can try it for yourself,” he said. He went to the smaller sink, washed his hands, then switched on the cooktop. He moved with a purposeful precision that, to be completely honest, was damned sexy. Opening the refrigerator, he removed a dish of butter and two large plastic bottles—one withapple butterwritten on the side and the other withDijon mustard.
She sucked in a tight breath. “Would you mind making my sandwich without—”
“Without the apple butter and the mustard?” he interrupted, holding up the containers, and she would have sworn she’d heard the hint of amusement in his tone.
She grimaced. “Apple butter and Dijon mustard on a grilled cheese sandwich sounds…” How could she put this delicately? “It sounds…”
“Awful?” he supplied. And there it was—that cocky, slightly hotheaded lilt to his voice that made her head spin.
“Well, yeah,” she agreed, watching as the man assembled the tools and ingredients to make her meal.
“To tell you the truth, the first time I made it, I wasn’t so sure about it either,” he said, falling into a rhythm. All she could do was stand there and watch. In seconds, he had two buttered pieces of bread, a thick slab of cheddar cheese, a scribble of mustard, and a healthy smear of apple butter pressed between the thick sourdough slices. With a spatula, he slid the sandwich onto the grill. It sputtered and popped as hot met cold, and the comforting smell of buttery toasted bread engulfed the space.
She closed her eyes and sighed, inhaling the delectable scent. “That’s incredible!”
“And you haven’t even taken a bite,” he answered with enough snark in his tone to send her pulse racing.
She opened her eyes and found Mitch staring at her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you pay attention to my sandwich? Won’t it burn if you lose focus?”
He kept his gaze trained on her. “I could do this in my sleep,” he answered, taking the spatula and flipping the grilled cheese over without even looking. The cool butter again crackled against the scorching surface—or maybe that was the air between them.
“Showoff,” she teased, fighting the urge to trace the hard angles of his chiseled jawline with her tongue.
“Better than a hothead?” he tossed back with a hint of a smirk. The man was in his element. Cooking in the food truck revealed a side of him she’d never seen.
